Blue Raspberry Tart
by Liebling
Summary: ‘The stone sky dances like the devil--awaiting their death--the clouds rain upon them, big teardrops...’ (RonHermione)


Cherry: I hope I never see Dallas Winston again. If I do I'd... probably fall in love with him. 

_~ Outsiders_

_xoxoxo_

_xoxoxo_

_xoxoxo_

It's supposed to be like _Romeo and Juliet_.  And it is, a little bit.

You see, they both die.  Both of them.  It's a sad tale and it isn't the least bit happy, unless you consider 'being together forever' a happy idea..._no, no, I didn't think so._

A late night.  January.  Start of the New Year.  Celebrations.  Pop.

Her lips are the colour of **_a blue raspberry tart_**--those are his favorite.  It's cold outside in the Forest and he hands her his long ebony cloak but she's too weak to put it on.  And he's too weak to hand it to her.  They're side by side--and he's just on the ground his head upon a stump.  She's crying out...savage yelling: _"Help us!  Come on!  This way...over here..." _and her yelling blends in with the sound of the wind.  _"We're dying."  _Breathless.

He looks over at her and gives her a wiggly smile.  "And do you really think they care?"

"Yes."

"Well," he writhes slightly on the ground and the crumpled leaves underneath his cold body. "Well."

"It's isn't much noble, is it?"  She says, the tears leaking from her **_blue raspberry tart_** coloured eyes.  

"Not much at all," he answers back, reaching out to grab her hand.  He squeezes it tightly and she winces.  "Oh--" he says awkwardly "--does that hurt?"

"I think," she says and then drones on, "it's just the presence of you that hurts."

They are lost in silence for seconds and she mutters something vague. "The curse--that person--"

"--cold," he interjects "--that spell--"

"--undoable--"

"--hurts pretty bad--"

"--put your cloak on, or you'll die of cold--"

"--does it really matter--"

"--don't be stupid--"

They go on about nothing and everything and she can feel the blood leaving her body.

Tears drip from her rouge cheeks and she pulls up her knee socks and holds her wand tightly.  "Years I had with you," she says, "were the best of my life."

Her voice sounds raspy and moaning--Harry would've said it sounded like Marilyn Monroe's gone wrong.

He eyes the 'promise ring' on her pale finger.  The nails painted a chipped maroon.

"You still have it," he mutters, "after all these years."

"Yeah," she says sheepishly.  "Yeah."

Once again silence overcomes then and they both wonder--although not out loud--where Harry is--how Harry is--is he okay?--

he better be.

Pictures in his head depict Quidditch Matches, her knotty chocolate-coloured hair, her flushed cheeks, Harry's eyes--the war.

Kissing him was like kissing the sun.

"Not without a fight," she smiles slightly.

He repeats: "Not without a fight."

There are few parting words.  Here, and there.

_'Love' and 'Mercy' and 'Heaven'_ are mentioned briefly but not for long and not in an articulate manner.  The stone sky dances like the devil--awaiting their death--the clouds rain upon them, big teardrops saying that God is unhappy.  The ground and the twigs crackle underneath their bodies like fires that were once warm and filled with over-toasted marshmallows.  The trees shelter them, but not well enough.

And sooner or later, as is accustom in depressing love tales--they die.  And it has to work out that way.  Last moments--last seconds--nothing makes up for a lifetime.  Her shoes are encrusted with mud that almost sparkles in the moonlight, almost making it look like _diamonds_.  In her pale hand is clasped her twisted Hogwarts tie--as was a nervous habit--she was fingering it just before she died.

He is beside her, his loyal, taped wand by his side and his robes clasped with twine to keep the cold out.  But he's still cold.  Each hand on an opposite shoulder--trying to warm him.  

A crushed **_blue-raspberry tart_** in his hand, and near her body as well, he was trying to pass it over towards her, but missed.

It's over for them--but not for the millions still fighting.  Not for everyone else who wishes they could've gotten off _so_ easy.

The End.

*


End file.
